


Neither of Us Ready to Move On

by Mipeltaja



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Character Death, Eventual Happy Ending, Ghosts, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-04
Updated: 2015-03-04
Packaged: 2018-02-19 21:24:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2403374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mipeltaja/pseuds/Mipeltaja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Given the remarkable resilience of the human body, it can sometimes be hard to remember how terrifyingly easily something inside can just break without warning. And so, even amid all the death of V-Day, one takes Newton by complete surprise.</p><p>But dead, as he is about to discover, doesn't always equal gone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The first two chapters are going to be pretty heavy on the angst, but I promise I'm working towards a much lighter resolution. If I've missed a necessary tag, please let me know.

In retrospect, there are so many things Newt could have done differently - should have, really. For one thing, he should have taken into consideration that although he himself _felt_ fine, and though Hermann claimed the same of himself, it didn’t necessarily mean that either of them _were_ fine. He should have insisted on making a detour to medical for check-ups instead of focusing on convincing his reclusive lab partner to join the end-of-war celebration with him.

Failing that - and he _had_ \- he should never, ever have left Hermann alone. Not even for the ten minutes it took to change into less torn clothes that didn’t have blood on them.

If he’d done just one of those things, maybe he wouldn’t be running through the corridors of the Shatterdome now, with his heart so high in his throat that he genuinely thinks it might push out through his mouth at any moment. He’s headed to medical, which, again, should have been their - his and Hermann’s - first stop after the closing of the Breach, and which is where Hermann was taken during the ten minutes - twelve, tops - that Newt let him out of his sight. Which he never should have done.

Because the moment he did, this happened.

Logically, he knows Hermann would almost certainly have collapsed either way, but the least Newt could have done, having failed to consider the necessity of an immediate check-up because _he is an idiot_ , would have been to be there when he did. At least that way he would have known right away, instead of having to be told about it by a tech who had happened to be passing by when it happened and had been the one to call for help and administer what first aid she could. Which, let’s be fair here, was in all likelihood perfectly adequate. But even so.

Even so.

Upon reaching medical, he grabs the first person who looks like he might know what’s going on and demands to be allowed to see Hermann _immediately_. It’s probably really unfair to scream at the poor guy like he does, but Newt can’t help it. He’s distraught, and the way he sees it, he has every right to be.

Because that is his colleague of ten years, his _Drift partner_ , his closest goddamn friend in the world that they’re keeping somewhere in here, and Newt can’t shake the feeling that he needs to be close, just in case he is needed. He tries to explain this to the medics, but he only gets as far as “Drift partner” before he is pulled aside and taken to a different room, where they shine a penlight in his eyes and draw his blood - which makes no sense to him, because he’s pretty sure there’s no possible way that any aftereffects of the Drift could even show up in his blood - and ask him pointless questions about how he feels. As if _he’s_ the one who just keeled over for no apparent reason.

When he asks about Hermann, they tell him to just focus on cooperating with his own tests, all the while assuring him that his friend is in the best possible hands. They continue to hover around him, periodically repeating the tests to gauge his conscious state and generally frustrating the hell out of him.

 

The best possible hands, it turns out, aren’t enough. Because sometimes the odds stack up against you and some things, such as outright miracles, are still beyond the ability of even the most capable of medical professionals. And just like that, Hermann is gone. No goodbyes, no chance to say even a fraction of all the things Newt was preparing to bring up tonight. Things he _knew_ he should have said all of it sooner, and now there’s just a solemn-looking nurse who holds Newt’s hand and looks him in the eye as she explains what happened.

Subarachnoid hemorrhage. That’s what she tells him, and it won’t occur to Newt until much later to be grateful to be told at all, because coworkers aren’t typically entitled to this kind of information. The nurse says that by the time they got Hermann in it was too late to do anything, and now they want to put Newt through every possible test they can, in case it was Drifting with the Kaiju hivemind that caused it. Newt lets them, and he isn’t sure if he should be disappointed or relieved when everything comes back clear, or at least not indicative of anything that would even suggest he himself is in any immediate danger.

Because it’s not how it was supposed to _go_ , not if there’s any justice in the world. If one of them was going to die because of the Drift, shouldn’t it logically have been Newt, who did it twice, and went alone the first time? If he made it through both Drifts with minimal problems, why shouldn’t Hermann have, too?

Of course they say they can’t be sure it was the Drift at all. They tell him it could’ve been a pre-existing condition that had just gone unnoticed. These things happen. Newt doesn’t believe it was a coincidence. The Drift _had_ to have something to do with it, and Newt should’ve known enough to get both of them checked up before heading for the party. That one is on him. And maybe a little bit on Hermann, who didn’t think of it either, but blaming him for his own death would make Newt the biggest asshole in the known universe. So he only blames himself.

He’s kept in the infirmary for another twenty-four hours for observation, and apparently the word spreads that he’s perhaps a _tiny bit_ upset, because people decide to visit. Mako somehow finds time in her no doubt busy schedule to check up on him, though she doesn’t bring Becket with her. That’s fine by Newt. For all that he’s grateful to the guy for his instrumental role in saving the planet, he’s not sure he _likes_ Beckett very much. He does like Mako, though. She’s easy to talk to. And there are so many things on the tip of his tongue that he has to swallow down, because as much as it weighs on him, he can’t unload this on her, not when she has her own grief to deal with. Not even if she seems to be dealing with it better than Newt is dealing with his. For that same reason - and because he doesn’t really know him that well - he tells Marshal Hansen not to worry, and it doesn’t matter whether the Marshal believes it or just pretends to out of disinclination to deal with Newt’s problems, because he leaves all the same. And that’s all right. But when Tendo comes by, Newt can’t hold it in anymore.

“It’s just so unfair,” Newt tells him, staring at the far wall. “It was supposed to be over. The Kaiju were gone and the Breach was closed and that should’ve been the end of it.” His voice falters, “I thought he- I thought we were all safe. we _should_ have been safe. And then he just -” He can’t finish the sentence.

Tendo squeezes Newt’s arm in compassion and yeah, that helps a little, though it doesn’t stop the tears.

“I know,” Tendo says. “That’s what we all thought.”

It’s not what Newt wanted to hear, but then again he’s not too sure that anything would have been. He just feels so tired. Still, he forces what he hopes is a smile, however weak, and not a grimace. Tendo responds with a small smile of his own, so Newt considers that one a success, at least.

 

The following day Newt, having failed to manifest any life-threatening effects from his Drifts during the night, is deemed fit to return to his work, though it is stressed to him that he is to report to medical immediately should anything feel the slightest bit off. He doesn’t really relish the idea of going back to the lab. In fact, he thinks it might very well be the worst possible place for him to be right now, and sees no reason to reconsider that thought when he actually enters the space he until recently shared with an irritable mathematician. Now, it feels alien and all too familiar at the same time, but he still has work to do, and some of the specimens won’t keep for very long. Anyway, he reasons, maybe getting absorbed in his work will take his mind off the… other thing. He knows nothing else is likely to, so he pulls on a pair of gloves, takes out a piece of lung, and sets to work.

Dissection, Newt discovers, may not have been such a great idea after all. Sure, it distracts him from his grief, but it does so to a point where he’ll forget entirely, and periodically whirl around to share a thought with someone who isn’t there. Someone who will never be there again. Being repeatedly brought back to earth so harshly wears on him so much that the sixth time it happens, Newt can’t take it anymore. He has to remove his gloves so he can pull his glasses off his face and press the heels of his hands against his eyelids, which burn with the threat of tears. He takes a breath, and then another, and decides he needs a break.

Caffeine. He needs caffeine.

The coffee maker is on Hermann’s side of the lab, though, and as Newt retrieves it, he rather feels like he’s trespassing on hallowed ground. He never used to care which side he or his things were on while Hermann was alive, so it really shouldn’t matter _now_ , but it’s almost like Hermann is still there in some way. Newt imagines he can feel something of the man in the equation-filled blackboards that now seem to loom ominously as he passes them, the spare pair of reading glasses left atop a stack of printed reports, and the very line dividing the room in two. Just looking at all of it wrenches at Newt’s heart. He brings the coffee maker over to his side and pointedly avoids crossing the line again as he fills the machine up and turns it on, before slumping into a chair at a relatively clutter-free desk. It feels like he might never find the energy to get up again, and he lets out a long whine that turns into sobbing and buries his head in his arms.

 

He is jolted awake by the sound of his phone ringing. He feels groggy and his head hurts, and he considers just leaving it and calling whoever it is back later, but then the smell registers. Something’s burning.

Immediately wide awake, Newt remembers the coffee and springs to his feet. There are no flames, but the coffee in the pot has turned into a dark sludge and the smell is downright vile by now. He turns the machine off with a sigh and puts the probably ruined pot in the sink. Then he goes to retrieve his phone, which has already gone silent.

There is one missed call, and it’s from Hermann’s number.

For a fleeting moment, Newt’s blood runs cold. His shock soon turns to anger, however, and then to outright fury. What is _wrong_ with some people? Who the fuck uses a dead man’s phone to prank call his _grieving coworker_? How much of an asshole do you have to be to think that would be in any way okay? Determined to find out, Newt hits ‘call’ and taps his foot as it dials, preparing to give whoever answers a royal chewing out.

He nearly drops his phone when he hears Hermann’s ringtone from across the lab, where his phone sits innocently on his desk, plugged into its charger. Newt stares at it and ends the call. 

He feels like he might start crying again.


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning is already a little easier. Newt wakes up actually feeling rested for the first time in weeks, possibly because if the war were still on he would’ve been expected to be in the lab three hours ago, and someone would’ve been banging on his door no later than ten minutes after he failed to show up on time. Either things are more lax in the post-war atmosphere, or it’s just that no one’s remembered to check on him. The latter is a distinct possibility.

The feeling of loss still weighs heavy in the back of his mind, but it feels kind of distant and unreal. He felt so miserable dragging himself to bed the night before that he doubted if he could even get up in the morning, but right now he just feels weird. Lighter than he thinks he should. Like he’s only now starting to process that the world is at peace, at least for the time being, and he can afford to just _breathe_ for the first time in years.

With no sense of urgency, he brushes his teeth, finds some reasonably clean clothes to put on, and heads to the mess for a late breakfast. He’s never been very good at adhering to the strict meal schedule most of the Shatterdome has little choice but to follow, and as such the kitchen staff is used to him wandering in whenever is convenient for him, even if that happens to be the middle of the night. When he enters today, he is greeted by Bayani, one of the friendlier cooks.

“Hey, Newt,” he says, already disengaging from his current task to reach for a nearby refrigerator. “Haven’t seen you for a couple of days, how are you doing?”

“I’ve been better,” Newt answers, honestly. “But hey, at least we’re not at war anymore.”

Bayani makes a sound of acknowledgement and peers into the fridge. “I have dried mackerel and congee here. What will it be?”

“Congee is that rice porridge stuff, right? Yeah, I’ll have that.” He hasn’t eaten fish since Kaiju blue started polluting the oceans, even though the PPDC have been careful about their suppliers and no one’s gotten food poisoning yet.

Bayani brings him a bowl and, with an air of conspiracy, produces an individually packaged jaffa cake from under a counter and hands that to him as well.

“Don’t go telling anyone,” he says. “Not enough to go around.”

Newt nods and manages a smile that may or may not reach his eyes, but that he hopes at least looks grateful. He takes his food back to his room to eat in privacy.

The jaffa cake turns out to be kind of old and dry, but the gesture still warms Newt’s heart, even though he’s not sure what qualified him for the little treat. He can’t really claim to be friends with Bayani - they never hang out or really even talk beyond brief exchanges on the topic of food - but he tolerates Newt’s blatant disregard for set meal times in a way none of the other cooks do, and that already puts him among Newt’s top ten favourite people in the entire Shatterdome.

Well, actually more like top five, now.

Really, the loneliness may be making this harder for him than it would otherwise have been. There have never been many people in the ‘dome whom Newt could seriously call friends, and now that figure is smaller than ever before. He has spent most of his waking hours in the lab with Hermann and, yes, even with all their fighting, he always considered Hermann a friend. A _good_ friend. The best one he had, probably. Did he ever tell him that? Knowing himself, he has to assume he never did, but he hopes Hermann knew anyway. It’d be kind of depressing to think he didn’t.

Aside from Hermann, there was Hualing, who used to be the only member of the cleaning staff who would voluntarily take the lab. Newt really liked her because she didn’t shy away from Kaiju viscera and once told him his tattoos looked kind of cool. But she packed up and left a month ago to be with her family, and Newt has never blamed her for making that choice. With the way the war was going at the time, she was worried she might not have a chance to see her parents again, and whatever the pay was at that point, it must not have been enough to make staying worth it. Still, that’s one less person to turn to for company. Newt doesn’t even have her phone number or email, not that he thinks he’d contact her either way.

He has an amicable relationship with Mako, who at one point paid frequent visits to the lab to talk Jaegers with Hermann. In the course of those visits she and Newt got used to one another, and on occasion she would even ask about his research. Newt always got the distinct impression that she found the shouting matches she would sometimes walk in on more amusing than anything. Mako and her boy Beckett are away with Marshal Hansen, though, busy smiling at cameras and being celebrated as the heroes they are.

So the only actual _friend_ Newt has who is at present on the base is Tendo, and that’s all right because he and Tendo get along great. Of course, Tendo gets along great with just about everyone. He’s cool like that. He’s also not too busy to chat, because with all the Jaegers gone, he has little else to do than keep an eye on the monitors. Just in case. An important job, as Tendo will concede, but very monotonous now that the likelihood of an event is practically nil.

“You’d rather we still had a war on our hands?” Newt asks, grabbing a vacant chair and pulling it over to Tendo’s side.

“Nah,” says Tendo. “I’ll sit here staring at the numbers until I become one with this chair if it means never having to send another pair of pilots to their deaths again.”

His tone is as light as ever, but there’s a melancholic undercurrent to it that seems to be becoming the norm with the remaining personnel. Newt decides it’s better not to dig any deeper into the subject and instead asks Tendo about his family. Immediately Tendo’s expression brightens and he spends a good half hour talking about his plans for a future he’d never really dared to hope to have.

 

When Newt at last drags himself to the lab, his day, which has been almost reasonable so far, takes an abrupt turn for the worse. The sight of the lab unoccupied serves as a very effective reminder of the very thing he’s been trying to avoid thinking about, and he can’t quite keep himself from making a pitiful noise in the back of his throat. Clearly this is going to take longer than a couple of days to adjust to.

Maybe, he thinks, he could make it easier on himself if he got someone to clear out the other half of the lab, take all that stuff to storage or something. Or send it to someone who can make sense of all of it, what does he care. He has no use for it.

Actually, no, on second thought that’s a terrible idea. Because just thinking about not having all this familiar junk here makes him feel even worse. He’s not ready for that step yet.

For the time being he resolves to just try and learn to handle the lab as it is. He can worry about things like letting go and moving on later. _Much_ later.

 

The days drag on and ever so slowly, life in the Shatterdome begins to find new tracks to settle into now that the Kaiju threat is gone. About half of the tech crew quit pretty much on the spot, and of course the media can’t get enough of Mako and Raleigh, who look suitably heroic and pretty on camera, so those two are constantly off somewhere doing interviews and appearing in talk shows. The rest of them keep doing what they’ve always done, except without the Kaiju threat hanging over their heads. Marshal Hansen isn’t nearly as popular as the two poster children of the averted apocalypse, but he doesn’t seem to mind very much. Tendo’s contributions during the war are largely ignored, which Newt finds so unfair. The Jaegers or their pilots wouldn’t have gotten very far without Tendo there. Tendo just kind of laughs when Newt says as much.

“That’s the way it is, brother. The pilots are the heroes and the rest of us might as well be invisible.”

There must be some truth to that, because Newt himself has received far less attention than he would have expected, considering his status as both the only living person to have Drifted with a Kaiju and the last remaining member of the K-science team. He agreed to one interview, because how could he not, and managed, miraculously, to keep a fairly upbeat attitude throughout the whole thing. It probably helped that it mostly focused on his tattoos, which he still loves to show off, and his unusual academical record, which he’s never really liked flaunting. Not once did the interviewer ask about Hermann Gottlieb, and Newt was as relieved for his own sake as he was offended on Hermann’s behalf. People should be interested in the other half of the K-science team, even if thinking about him still makes Newt struggle to keep his voice even and his eyes dry.

There have been no more requests from the media since then, except one that really sounded more like a plot to kidnap him than a legitimate interview, so he turned that one down. He can’t presently find it in himself to be bitter about it, though, and in any case the prospect of fame seemed much more fun when he thought he could either rub it in Hermann’s face or share the spotlight with him.

Funny how that works.

There _have_ been a number of requests for guest lectures at numerous institutes of higher learning, but traveling that much isn’t very convenient for him at the moment, so he only accepts the one from Hunan University, because at least that one is relatively close. He still wastes most of a day making the trip there and back, but at least it’s just the one day and he doesn’t have to bother with luggage or hotel rooms.

Just as he’s returning to his room that night, so exhausted that he can barely walk straight, his phone chimes a text alert. He fumbles with it for a moment before he succeeds in opening the text, and for a moment he can’t tell if he’s just too bleary-eyed to even read anymore or if the entire message is just a meaningless jumble of letters and symbols. When it fails to resolve into anything meaningful, he shrugs, puts his phone down and starts undressing for bed.

He’s on the verge of falling asleep when realization strikes and makes him sit bolt upright and feel blindly for his phone on the table next to his bed. He squints at the bright screen and brings up recent text messages, and yeah, it’s still just reads “N[w%ob” and is still entirely indecipherable to him, but that’s not what tore him from the edge of sleep. It was the sender, which didn’t actually register until just now. The text, just like the strange phone call some days previous, is from Hermann’s number.

That’s it. He needs to figure out who’s doing this, and how, because this is possibly the biggest dick move he’s ever been subjected to, and he’s been on the receiving end of a few. As far as he knows, Hermann’s phone is still in the lab, so that’s going to be the first place to check. He can think about what to actually do once he’s located the phone.

He turns on the light and pulls on a pair of sweatpants and the first shirt he finds, which happens to be an old graphic tee with the logo of some band he doesn’t even remember ever listening to. He steps into his boots and shoves the untied laces into the shafts. He barely remembers to grab his keys before he’s out of the door.

When he reaches the lab he’s surprised to see the doors wide open and the lights on. This whole thing just keeps getting weirded. He might even find it a little creepy if he weren’t so pissed about the whole thing. Fuming, he enters the lab and immediately stops in his tracks.

There are people inside.

There are people inside, three of them, and they’re packing up the big blackboards. There’s a conspicuously empty space where Hermann’s holoprojector used to be. They haven’t even noticed Newt coming in.

“Hey!” he shouts. All of them stop what they’re doing and turn to look at him. They look surprised, but not in the ‘oh shit we’ve been caught’ way that Newt was expecting. And actually, now that he really looks, they’re all wearing PPDC issue overalls and have their nametags in plain view. Okay then. Not to be deterred, Newt strides forward until he’s face to face with a guy who’s holding a tablet and seems to be instructing the others.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he says, and it comes out rather less authoritative and rather more shrill than he might have hoped.

“Ah,” a calm voice says to his right, “he doesn’t speak English, Doctor Geiszler.”

Newt turns to see one of the two others approaching him. She speaks a few words to the man Newt was yelling at and then turns her attention back to him.

“I’m sorry,” she says, but it doesn’t look like she is. “We did not think you would be here today, so we did not notify you, but we’re removing Doctor Gottlieb’s things from the space. Everything to do with his research goes into PPDC storage, and his personal property will be sent to his surviving family. Don’t worry, we won’t be touching any of your equipment or specimens.”

Newt swallows against a sudden tightening in his throat. “And you’re doing this in the middle of the night, why?” he says, because it’s the only thing he can think of that isn’t ‘what gives you the right?’, and it’s a fair point besides. He’s pretty sure it is, anyway.

The woman gives an apologetic smile at that. “Shifts have been all kinds of weird since the Breach was closed. This was scheduled for today so we wouldn’t disturb your work, but other things came up and we’re only getting around to it now. We do have the relevant paperwork if you want to see it.”

“Oh,” Newt says. “No, that’s - that’s all right, I don’t need to see the paperwork. Carry on, I guess.” Really, he wants to scream at them to go away, but he knows he doesn’t have the authority to back it up, so he just watches on as the three of them wheel the blackboards out. Just as the last of them walks through the door, he makes a decision.

When he’s reasonably sure that they’re not going to come back within the next few minutes, Newt goes over to Hermann’s side. He glances over his shoulder to make doubly sure no one’s going to see and picks up one of the smaller blackboards, the one Hermann used not for the important stuff, but for winding down when he needed a break. It’s still scribbled full of doodles and relatively simple calculations about something inconsequential, like the average amount of tea consumed during the typical workday or whatever, fuck if Newt knows. He’s pretty sure no one’s going to miss this one. They can’t possibly even know the exact amount of blackboards Hermann had, cause the guy had them _everywhere_. And even if they do somehow have that information - possibly because Hermann kept records of shit like that - if they come up one short they’ll probably not worry too much about it. All the important data is on the big ones they just took away, or archived on one of the many hard drives carefully stored in a cabinet as far away from Kaiju bits as Hermann could get them without taking them out of the lab altogether.

So Newt takes the little board with the unimportant math and the little drawing of what he is pretty sure is the starship Enterprise, and brings it to his side. On his way he spots Hermann’s phone on the desk, still plugged into the charger, and half-hidden under a piece of paper that must’ve fallen off one of the several stacks on the desk. On a whim, he pockets the phone, charger and all. That, someone probably will miss at some point, but he’ll just say he hasn’t seen it. Hermann’s last day alive was an eventful one; who knows what he might have misplaced in the rush?

Newt weighs the pros and cons of hiding his loot somewhere on his side of the lab vs. taking it all to his room. On one hand, if the people emptying out Hermann’s side realize there are items missing they might check Newt’s side of the lab for them, but on the other hand the blackboard, though small, is kind of hard to hide, and he doesn’t want to have to explain what he’s doing with it if he runs into someone in the corridors.

In the end, his room wins out and he slips out of the lab. Luckily for him he runs into no one, but he hardly dares to breathe until he reaches the safety of his own room. He pushes the heavy metal door shut behind him and leans against it for a moment, half convinced someone has followed him. He feels a shiver run through him and discovers he’s too exhausted to stay on his feet for a moment longer, so he slides down along the wall until he’s sitting. He’s not sure when his ragged breathing turned into sobbing, and he only notices the tears streaming down his face when the first one falls from his chin onto the wood frame of the blackboard he’s still clutching. Hurriedly, Newt shoves the board aside. It would be the cherry on top of this particular shit sundae if he accidentally damaged the precious chalk lines, and that’s not something he’s prepared to deal with right now. He covers his face with his hands and weeps.

For the second time that night, his phone chirps a text alert. He fully intends to ignore it, but then it’s followed by a second one. With considerable effort, he pushes himself up to retrieve his phone from the bedside table. Before looking, however, he sits down on the bed and kicks his boots off.

Once again, both texts are from Hermann’s number. Only this time, they’re actual, only slightly jumbled words.

 

  _\- Ne_ _wton_

 

  _\- PleAse do &’t c ry, Newton. It’s no+ worth y#ur tearS._

  

Newt has genuinely had it with this prankster. Furious, he taps out a reply.

  

_i dont know who you are but this really isn’t cool -_

 

He touches "send", and Hermann’s phone chimes in his pocket. Oh. Right. His vision starts to go blurry again. He doesn’t understand what’s going on or what he’s done to deserve this kind of torment.

And hang on, how did whoever is sending these even know he was crying? A sudden surge of paranoia has him frantically looking around the room.

“Alright,” he says, and he’s not sure if it’s anger or trepidation that’s making his voice waver. “Where are you? What are you playing at?”

The answer comes in the form of two more texts.

 

  _\- I’m r/ght here, NewtOn. It’s me._

 

  _\- I should not have drawn you out to the la b. I’m s?rry._  

 

“Damn right you’re sorry!” Newt says, gaze still darting around as he tries to figure out where he’s being watched from. Has someone installed hidden cameras in his room?

“You know what you _ought_ to be sorry about, though? Harassing me from a dead man’s number! How about you apologize for that?”

For a moment, there’s no response. Newt begins to think maybe he’s convinced the mysterious dickbag to leave him alone, but then he receives a new text.

 

_\- Harass%ng you? I’m try(ng to COMFORT you, you twit!_

 

And then, while Newt is still staring at his phone, stunned, he receives another:

 

_\- I’m sorry, that was out of line. You’re ups[t and my yelling at you won’t help._

 

And Christ, Newt can practically _hear_ the awkward clearing of a throat in that last one, can picture the accompanying upward tilt of a chin, a gesture that’s almost defiant despite the apologetic words. Every rational part of him is screaming that this is a trick, because how could it not be, but the rest of him is positive there’s no way, _no way_ that even the most dedicated and cruel prankster could do that good a job imitating the irritable jerk Newt had grown so attached to in their years working together.

“Shit,” he whispers. “Hermann?”


	3. Chapter 3

Hermann remembers being asked, not too terribly long ago, if he had any plans for after the war. He remembers replying that with the way things were going, he should be content to live long enough to see the Breach destroyed. He hadn’t intended for those words to be prophetical, and had most certainly never had any reason to expect them to be.

And thus, when death came for Hermann Gottlieb, he was not in any way ready for it, the status of his personal Carthage be damned.

In a way, it was almost ironic, because he had gladly accepted the risk of death just hours before, when he’d offered to join Newton in the Drift - but the circumstances had, of course, been very different. He would have risked so much more by not Drifting, but to die after the world had been saved was to die pointlessly. And it was a cruel, cruel thing to do to Newton, besides. Newton, who had gone positively giddy when Hermann had agreed to go to the end-of-war party with him; Newton, who had just popped off for a moment to change and could round the corner any moment and deserved so much better than to find Hermann like this. 

It was of course absurd to be so worried about someone else, given the circumstances, but if there was one thing Hermann was certain of, it was that he simply _couldn’t go_. He couldn’t just leave Newton like this, not after everything that had happened. Helpless to do anything else, he clung to that thought, refused to let go of it even when the edges of his consciousness began to crumble away to nothingness.

 

After that, everything was somewhat murky for a while. There were indistinct shapes and sounds - possibly smells, too, but none of it seemed to carry any meaning. It was just there. Probably time passed, but with no way of measuring it, that too was without any real significance. For a time, even the notion of existence seemed hazy. Unreal. The phrase ‘I think, therefore I am’ floated up from somewhere, but while there were definitely thoughts, it didn’t really seem as though there was an ‘I’.

Rooms and corridors flowed by as if carried along by a stream, or perhaps air currents. Spaces that were vaguely familiar, but not enough so to hold interest, came and went. Once or twice, a brief spark of hope struck as something very nearly came to focus, but hope soon gave way to resigned apathy as whatever it had been slipped away just as everything else had.

And then, like smoke clearing, a sudden clarity when a new space slid into view. Blackboards, specimen tanks, machines, and a single, reassuring thought: _this is mine_. And there, like feet touching solid ground after wading through sludge, like drawing air into empty lungs, _there_ was the ‘I’ that had been missing. This was _his_ space. His lab. The equations covering the towering boards had been written by his hand, the rungs of the ladder worn down under his shoes. His most important work, the last several years of his life, had taken place here - not in this specific room, but in the presence of these objects - and it had left an impression of him upon it all. Here was the legacy of Doctor Hermann Gottlieb. He revelled in it, letting it wash over him, and remembered.

It wasn’t until Newton came in that Hermann realized something integral had still been missing. True, the lab was a comfort, familiar and well-worn, but it was lifeless by itself. Too cold. Too _quiet_. But Newton brought with him a kind of warmth that felt like home, though he wasn’t being nearly as loud as Hermann was used to him being. He watched as Newton prepared his workspace, briskly and efficiently, and took out a piece of Kaiju with the same practiced ease Hermann had witnessed so many times before. It was soothing to watch him, and Hermann wasn’t sure if it was because it almost felt like a routine workday - as long as he didn’t think too hard about his own situation - or because of his personal… attachment to Newton. He wasn’t sure it mattered. What mattered was that things were starting to feel somewhat like they should.

At least until Newton whirled around like he was about to say something, only to snap his mouth shut and stare dejectedly at the blackboards. It made Hermann want to reach out and touch, but when he tried, he realized he had no arms with which to do so. It wasn’t that they were missing - or rather, they _were_ , but the thing was, so was his entire body. It was a bizarre feeling to not have a discernible shape, made distressing by the fact that it rendered him incapable of interacting with his surroundings. What was the point of staying if he couldn’t actually do anything?

Frustrated, he moved to the other side of the lab - at least he _could_ move under his own power here, limbs or no limbs - and as an experiment, tried to pick up a piece of chalk. He put all his concentration into the effort, but even though this time he thought he could feel himself reach for it, the part of him that stretched out refused to resolve itself into anything that could even charitably be termed an arm. It was unsurprising, therefore, that the chalk did not even budge. He made an attempt to smudge some of the less important lines on the blackboard, and still no success. He even tried throwing all of himself against the board, which accomplished exactly as much as everything else had. He just kind of rebounded off the surface, not even particularly hard, and the blasted thing remained undisturbed. Not ready to give up just yet, he moved on to the items on a nearby desk.

Again, he was met with failure as nothing he attempted to touch would move at all. Not the office chair, nor the stapler - not even the errant paperclip he found sitting on the corner of the desk. He prodded at a stack of printouts, and it didn’t even rustle. As he drew back, however, the reaching part of him passed through his phone, which was sitting on the desk next to the printouts, and the screen lit up. Hermann might have gasped, if he’d been able to remember how to do so. It was such a small thing, but under the circumstances it was momentous. Hermann reached for the phone again.

It turned out the touch screen was useless, at least for the moment, but it didn’t take him long to figure out a way to bypass the interface entirely and manipulate the device’s functions from the inside, as it were. It was clumsy and slow, but it was fantastic to be able to do it at all, and he was getting better at it by the minute.

He didn’t know how long he’d spent fiddling with the phone, but when he at last remembered to take note of his surroundings again, he found Newton asleep at his desk, next to a coffee maker that looked like it could start smouldering at any moment. Alarmed, Hermann rushed to the machine to turn it off, but the ruddy thing was ancient and had an on/off switch that he could not operate in his current state. That, coupled with an inability to produce any kind of a sound, meant he didn’t have any way of rousing Newton, either.

Except.

There was the phone. He was unsure if he would know how to make it pull up and play a sound file quite yet, but he had already found his way to the contact list once. He could call Newton’s number, it would be easy.

 

He did not foresee Newton, after dealing with the burnt coffee, coming back to his phone and being upset about receiving a call from a dead colleague, though in retrospect he probably ought to have. He definitely did not expect Newton to call him back and realize Hermann’s phone was actually right there in the lab with him. Still, Hermann mused as he watched Newton leave the lab, upset was better than hurt, wasn’t it?

He hoped so, at least.

 

The next few days passed in kind of a blur for Hermann, not because he was too busy to keep track of time, but because it was hard to do so without a living, breathing person there to ground him. Newton either had things to do outside the lab, or was actively avoiding spending time in the room. Hermann didn’t know which, but either way, it meant he was alone more than he would have preferred; No one but Newton ever really came down to the lab anyway, and leaving the space himself was easier said than done.

He tried going somewhere else a couple of times, when the boredom and loneliness overwhelmed him, but he never really got anywhere. As soon as he left the lab, the fog overtook him again, and the corridors that he had once known so well looked alien and indistinguishable from one another. Eventually, he always wound up back in the lab, and the fog receded.

 

In the end, all he could do was keep trying to move things. Most of the time it didn’t feel like he was making any headway with that, either, but Hermann had been through physical therapy before. He knew progress could be so slow as to appear imperceptible, but he also knew he had a stubborn streak the width of the Breach, and how to channel that stubbornness into something productive. So he kept at it, stretching muscles he didn’t have, until at last he was able to nudge a pencil. It didn’t move very far, but it was undoubtedly his doing, and that was reason enough to believe he was on the right path. Given time, he might be able to reach out to Newton again, without upsetting him so badly.

It was time he wasn’t afforded, however. Not two days after his breakthrough in physical influence, his space was trespassed upon by three people wearing the overalls of the Shatterdome maintenance crew. Their presence was unusual enough in itself, but that they appeared on a day when Newton had failed to do so at all was, somehow, downright alarming. It only became more so when they made a beeline for Hermann’s holographic terminal and unplugged everything. One of them was already eyeing the big blackboards.

Oh no.

 _No_. That wasn’t allowed. They couldn’t just take it all away. Not yet. He wasn’t ready.  
All right, yes, according to protocol any PPDC equipment was to be reassigned within three days of an employee’s death, and it had been longer than that already. The delay itself made sense; the late Marshall Pentecost’s affairs would have logically taken precedence, and even after all that had been sorted, Hermann imagined everyone would have felt it more urgent to see to the late Jaeger pilots’ things before they would spare any thought for his work, which now held only historical value, unless someone wanted to look into the possibility of the Breach reopening. So really, why were they moving his things at all? They were as good as in storage down here, with Newton’s research.

And where _was_ Newton? Did he know this was going on? Did he care? Had he in fact requested for Hermann’s equipment to be removed? If he didn’t want Hermann or his memory anywhere near him, if that was the reason behind his recent absence, that didn’t leave Hermann with much of anything to hold on to. Maybe the fog would fill the lab too. Maybe he’d end up drifting around the Shatterdome again, lost and hazy, until his grip on this world grew loose enough that he would just… fade away. Plunge fully into the bright void he had glimpsed between dying and waking into his new existence.

No. He didn’t want that. He needed to have this safe space, this haven. He needed to stay. He felt oddly short of breath, which was absolutely ridiculous when he didn’t even have lungs, but the sensation was frighteningly real. This would be the end, at last. He’d hung on past his time and now he was being forced to go and he would never - never -

The lab's bright fluorescent lights flickered, making the people in overalls pause and glance up at them. It also quelled the tide of rising panic in Hermann, replacing it with stunned wonder. Had he done that? He knew he could influence electronic devices, so lights weren’t entirely outside the realm of possibility...

They also weren’t his primary concern. And now that the panic had passed, that familiar stubbornness reared its head once more. No, he wouldn’t just sumbit to this. There had to be another option. There _had to be_. Hermann did the only thing he could think of: he lunged for his phone. He needed help, and there was only one person who could conceivably provide it.

He’d never attempted typing before, and he didn’t realize just how garbled his message was until after it had been sent, but it he told himself shouldn’t matter. Newton would see the number. Newton would - would what, exactly? Come in and stop the PPDC staff from doing what they had no doubt been ordered to do? Become unsettled by the message and come down just to tell the people in overalls to hurry it up? Ignore it entirely? Hermann didn’t know. He didn’t know. But it was the only hope he had.

He needed to move his phone somewhere where it wouldn’t be found, but realistically, such a thing was beyond him. Even with all his practice, his current strength was somewhere on par with a light breeze - nowhere near enough to move something as heavy as a phone, much less carry it. At a loss to what else to do, he pulled a sheet of paper from the stack next to the phone and let it fall on top of it, hiding the device for the moment. After that, all he could do was observe, and wait.

 

He had about lost faith in any help coming when Newton burst into the lab, disheveled and only barely dressed. Had he been asleep? Hermann barely had the time to feel a twinge of guilt at possibly having dragged him out of bed for this before Newton strode up to the nearest worker, his face like thunder as he demanded to know what was going on.

That was… good. That was a good reaction. It meant Newton hadn’t known. Though of course he wasn’t able to stop them when they were there on official business, what had Hermann been thinking? Defeated, Hermann watched Newton watch the crew pack up the big blackboards. Even with the circumstances being what they were, it was kind of nice to have him here, if this was to be the end.

And then, as soon as he was left alone, Newton did what Hermann hadn’t dared to hope for: he darted to Hermann’s side and picked up one of the small blackboards, his intent to take it and hide it evident in the way he kept glancing towards the open doorway. Hurriedly, Hermann shifted the sheet of paper covering his phone and tired not to get his hopes up, but Newton, dear, reckless Newton, saw the phone and snatched it from the table, along with the charger. Hermann wished for lungs, then, if only so he could sigh in relief.

Following Newton out of the lab and through the Shatterdome was easier than Hermann had expeced, given his previous experiences. The fog fled from Newton, and Hermann wondered if it would have always done that, if he’d just tried to leave with him before, or if it just happened this time because Newton was carrying items belonging to him. Without the fog to shroud them, the walls outside the lab seemed forbidding at first, but recognition soon set in. He knew these corridors, had walked them countless times before, and he would do so again. Because it wasn’t just the lab that had been his, though he had always felt most comfortable there: the rest of the Shatterdome, too, had been his territory as much as it had been anyone else’s. He shouldn’t have been treating it like it was some unknown land.

Preoccupied with these thoughts, he had fallen behind enough that Newton slipped into his room ahead of him, slamming the door in his face. Hermann stayed there for a moment, contemplating the closed door. In theory, there should have been nothing stopping him from simply going through it, but the idea just felt wrong. It went against the entire purpose of a closed door. But the fog was starting to close in, and despite his previous assurances, Hermann didn’t think he had the strength to battle it at the moment. Thus, he did his best approximation of squaring his shoulders, and pushed forward.

The door offered barely any resistance at all, and then he was inside the room. Newton was sitting on the floor, his back pressed against the door. Crying. Hermann was tired of making him cry.

He reached once more for the phone, hoping that this time he could make things better instead of worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a difficult chapter to polish, and I'm still not sure I'm completely happy with certain parts of it, but I think it's coherent enough to publish.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay. My writing time as of late has been taken up by a rather laborious assignment and what free time I had left over from that, I mostly didn't feel like spending in front of a different Word document. The fourth chapter was also getting pretty long in comparison to the previous chapters, so I decided to split it into two.

“Shit. Hermann?”

It never occurred to Hermann before that one could miss hearing their own name spoken, but when he hears his own fall from Newton’s lips, even in that cautious, disbelieving tone, there’s no question that he has, in fact, missed it quite a lot. It is acknowledgement that he has been denied for - how long has it been, now? A week? Two? To finally have it is an immense, immediate relief. He texts back a single word.

 

_\- Yes._

 

Slowly, carefully, Newton stands up. His eyes are wide, his lips parted, and his breath comes in tense, shuddering puffs, but at least he’s not crying anymore. Hermann considers that a step forward. He watches as Newton rubs his face with both of his hands and with a deep, steadying sigh, turns to face a seemingly random direction, presumably trying to guess where Hermann is. He guesses wrong.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay. So assuming this isn’t someone’s idea of a prank, or some really weird Drift side effect - and I haven’t ruled that out yet - what _is_ happening here?”

Hermann would very much like to know the answer to that question, himself, but as things stand, he can’t think of any reply to give. Fortunately, Newton doesn’t seem to need one right now.

“I mean, you’re dead! Your body was sent to your family who have probably buried it by now and you’re not supposed to be texting me or calling me when...” he swallows, opens his mouth again, but ends up only gesturing helplessly with his hands.

Hermann, for his part, finds himself momentarily stunned by the mention of his family. He never even considered how they would... but of course he hadn’t spoken to any of them in years. He can’t imagine they were _pleased_ to hear about his passing, but at the same time, he doesn’t see how it could have made much of a difference in their lives. He expects they will have received the news and his body with varying levels of grief and held a tasteful funeral, and then gone on with their lives in a newly Kaiju-free world - short one son or brother or cousin, but ultimately no worse off for it. Hermann is faintly surprised to realize he isn’t the least bit bitter about it. That distance was of his own choosing, after all.

In the here and now, Newton finds his words again.

“I just - I don’t know what to _do_ with this. I mean it’s not exactly - you - are you haunting me? Like actually haunting me, is that what this is? I’m pretty sure you must’ve threatened to at least once, if - if I outlived you, which, hah, I guess I did, and let me tell you, I really did not see that coming, but I didn’t expect you to actually - and here I thought -”

Hermann manages to cut him off with a text. Thank goodness for sound alerts.

 

_\- I’d prefer n(t to call it tha t, but yes, iT looks like I am._

 

Damn the clumsiness of this method of communication! Given a keyboard and a full set of reliable, physical fingers, Hermann would be capable of typing upwards of eighty words per minute with minimal errors. Like this, he manages maybe twenty, and even then mistakes creep in that he doesn’t have time to fix if he wants to get a word in edgewise.

 

_\- But I promis eyou, I’m not trying to torm£nt you._

 

Newton reads the texts and gives a short, desperate-sounding laugh. “So you, what, just didn’t feel like leaving?”

And, well. That really is the long and short of it, isn’t it? Trust Newton to hit the nail right on the head. Hermann takes his time with his next message.

_\- It was not a convenient time for me._

This time, there’s genuine mirth in Newton’s laughter, though it gains a hysterical edge after a while. Just as Hermann is beginning to think he’s going to need to step in in some way, Newton calms down.

“Oh man,” he wheezes, “I always knew you were a stubborn bastard, obviously, but this - this is a whole new level!”

Hermann can’t really argue on that point, so he doesn’t.

”You know,” Newton says, having calmed down enough to sound almost casual, “we really need to figure out some different way for you to talk if we’re gonna keep this up. Can’t have you racking up a massive phone bill post-mortem. I don’t think we want the kind of attention that could get.”

He’s right, of course, and it’s yet another consequence of his death that hadn’t even occurred to Hermann. The few texts he’s sent so far probably aren’t enough to raise any suspicions yet, but if he keeps it up… well, it’s one thing to convince _Newton_ , who knows him so well, that the text really are from him, and quite another to try to explain the situation to anyone else who might come asking questions.

“I’m just gonna take your silence to mean you see my point. Here.” Newton unearths a slightly battered tablet from a pile of assorted rubbish on his desk and opens a text processing application. He sits down on his bunk and sets the tablet down next to himself, looking expectantly at empty air.

When Hermann doesn’t immediately do anything, Newton starts fidgeting.

“You… _can_ work this too, right? It’s basically the same as a phone. It - it doesn’t have to be something that belonged to you, does it?”

 

 _No,_ Hermann writes quickly, _this is perf%ctly fine._

 

“Good,” Newton says. “Good. There’s a speech synthesizer function if you want to…”

Hermann takes a moment to find it, but when he does-

“No, this is perf-percent-c-t-l-y fine,” a crisp feminine voice announces, and Newton bursts into giggles again.

“Yeah, you’ve got it. Might want to work on those typos though.”

 

_This, coming from a man who never proofreads his emails._

 

Hermann types carefully this time, just to prove to Newton - and himself - that he can. He doesn’t bother using the speech synthesizer right now, however. No point when Newton is staring intently at the tablet screen anyway.

 

_This is hardly the most elegant solution._

 

Newton shrugs. “It’s a temporary measure. Buys us time to figure out something better.” He yawns, abruptly reminding Hermann of the late hour. The excitement must have been the only thing keeping him awake this long, and now it’s beginning to wear off.

 

_Fair enough. Get some sleep, Newton._

Newton nods, and as he mumbles a goodnight and begins to shed his clothing without so much as a shred of self-consciousness, Hermann suddenly feels like he’s intruding. Newton doesn’t ask him to leave, but neither does he invite him to stay, and unlike the lab, this space doesn’t belong to Hermann in any way. He should go.

Outside, there’s the Fog to consider.

But Hermann feels much stronger now than he did coming in. More confident. And he really isn’t comfortable with the idea of staying in Newton’s room while its owner is asleep. It would be crossing a line, and Hermann has always been very particular about that sort of thing. So really, he ought to at least try the corridor.

He exits Newton’s room and, as expected, the Fog is waiting for him. But it feels different from before, less oppressive. It doesn’t engulf him as it always did before, and his thoughts remain unclouded. It just hovers there, drawing back when Hermann moves experimentally. Emboldened, he picks the route he guesses to be the safest, and heads back towards the lab. The Fog doesn’t impede him, and Hermann even imagines it’s getting thinner the closer he gets to his destination.

By the time he reaches the lab doors, he is able to perceive the space around him clearly, as if the Fog had never lingered out here at all. Inside, the people in overalls have almost finished clearing out his half of the room, but strangely, it doesn’t feel like it matters. He doesn’t need things to anchor him. He doesn’t even necessarily need people.

Well, no, that’s a lie. He probably does need Newton, a little. but he doesn’t need him _present_ , at least not all the time, and that is the important distinction. Hermann has always hated having to depend on others, and it’s a relief to know that he is not lost on his own. Satisfied that he can still count the lab as a safe space, Hermann sets out on an exploration of the Shatterdome, determined to see how far his newfound Fog-repelling powers will see him.

The Shatterdome is much more quiet at night than it used to be. Probably so many people have quit since the closing of the Breach that most of the remaining staff now only work during the day, and in any case there is no longer a need for around-the-clock alertness. The Fog hasn’t completely dispersed, but it is now more of a light mist, making the dim corridors navigable, even if they still feel eerily distant.

Hermann makes his way over to LOCCENT, where he finds a bored-looking tech with a tablet in her lap, reading something that is likely not the least bit work-related while the monitor in front of her rolls out a feed of wholly unremarkable readings from the former site of the Breach. The Fog doesn’t shy from her like it had from Newton, but then again Hermann doesn’t know her. Perhaps if it were Tendo sitting there, it might be different.

He spends the rest of the night wandering the ‘dome, and while he does find areas where the Fog thickens to a point where he cannot find his way through and is forced to turn back, his exploration is for the most part unhindered. He finds his own quarters still untouched - perhaps dealing with his research was deemed more urgent - and mercifully free of the Fog. He debates enlisting Newton’s help in saving some select items from here as well, but decides against it. He can’t expect Newton to keep pilfering things on his behalf, and really, what use is he going to have for any of it? Whatever he’d have salvaged would just sit somewhere in Newton’s room collecting dust, and if anyone ever found it, it could spell trouble for Newton. The phone and the blackboard are bad enough as it is.

 

It’s hours before Hermann returns to the lab, and when he does, he finds Newton already there, working with his back turned to the newly empty half of the room. Hermann feels a pang of guilt as it occurs to him that Newton may have tried to speak with him while he wasn’t actually there. Eager to rectify the situation, he looks for the tablet, but it isn’t there.

He assumes that to be an oversight of some sort on Newton’s part until he goes into his room and finds both the tablet and Newton’s phone on the desk, powered off. He has the PIN for neither, and his own phone is nowhere to be seen. The small blackboard Newton nicked the previous night, however, is. It sits in the middle of a short wall-mounted shelf and is being kept company by a collection of Kaiju figurines that Hermann can only assume were previously artfully arranged on the shelf, but now stand cramped together on either side of the blackboard. Really, the small monsters almost look like they’re huddling together in fear of the chalk lines, which could perhaps be considered appropriate if the scribblings on the board were in any way related to his work regarding the Breach.

In any case, Hermann finds the place of honour equal parts touching and worrying; Why should Newton still feel the need to treat the thing so reverently now that he knows Hermann hasn’t truly gone anywhere?

Perhaps he ought to ask the man himself.

Hermann finds Newton more or less where he left him, elbow-deep in an older specimen that had previously gone ignored due to the battered state in which it had arrived. Idly, Hermann thinks that Newton must be scraping the bottom of the barrel to have that one out. For the moment he sees no practical way of getting Newton’s attention, never mind actually _communicating_ with him - short of trying to flicker the lights in an attempt at Morse code - so he resigns himself to waiting for an opportunity to present itself.

Newton, damn him, is not and never has been in the habit of taking written notes, nor is he known for transcribing his dictaphone entries in anything approaching an expedient manner, so when the man doesn’t so much as glance in the direction of his closed laptop all morning, it comes as no great surprise. Really, given that all today’s dictation consists of thus far is variations upon the theme of “sample is too damaged to yield useful data”, Hermann rather doubts if Newton will bother transcribing this one at all.

Around lunchtime the lab receives an unexpected visitor. Mako Mori walks in with a mildly worried frown on her face, and relaxes visibly when she spots Newton. Instead of going straight to him, however, she takes a moment to take in the empty half of the lab, which gives Newton time to notice her on his own.

“Oh, hey Mako!” he calls, peeling off his gloves and ambling over. “What’s up?”

Slightly flustered, she focuses her attention back on Newton. “You have been unreachable by phone,” she says, a touch of admonishment in her voice.

“Oh,” Newton says, “Yeah, I, uh, must’ve left it in my room.”

“And turned it off?”

“Terrible battery life?” Newton offers, and Hermann is fairly sure Mako doesn’t buy that for a second, but he’s nevertheless glad that she decides not to press any further.

Instead, she stands up a little straighter and her expression takes on a professional edge. “I came to tell you that the Jaeger program is now officially over,” she says, not looking too happy to be relaying this information. “The unveiling of the memorial is next Saturday, and we are all expected to leave the Shatterdome by the end of next month.”

“Already?” Newton says, incredulous. “What about that whole ‘monitoring the Breach site’ business?”

“It will continue, but not here. You’ll have to ask Tendo if you want more details.”

Hermann finds it doubtful that Newton will ask, though he himself would be curious to know what kind of an arrangement it’s going to be.

As if on cue, Newton looks away and says “On second thought, I don’t think I even wanna know.”

He stares mournfully at the empty side of the lab, and Mako follows his gaze.

“All of his things are gone, but it still feels like there’s something of him here,” she says at length. “It’s the same with Sensei.” 

Newton’s eyes snap back to her, and for a moment Hermann thinks he’s about to tell her - which would be as tremendously bad an idea as it would be a very _Newton_ thing to do.

“It’s not easy, is it?” he says instead. “How are you holding up?”

“I am… at peace,” Mako says after a moment of consideration. “I’m still grieving, but for the first time since I was small, it feels like there are good things ahead.”

Newton nods silently, his eyes cast down and away as if he doesn’t really agree. Hermann finds it distressing, but to his relief Mako seems to pick up on it as well. She purses her lips and regards Newton through narrowed eyes for a moment. Then her expression softens and she places a hand on his shoulder.

“Newt,” she says gently, ducking down to meet his eye. “Losing a Drift partner is hard, and you are allowed to be upset. Usually, you would have been offered counseling, but…”

“But we haven’t actually had qualified people to do that since before the defunding,” Newton cuts in. “Anyway, I’m coping. It’s - it’s a process, you know?”

“Herc has been talking to Raleigh about Chuck, and it seems to be helping him. Maybe you should try, too.”

Newton responds with a bark of bitter laughter and shrugs her hand off. “Yeah, that’s probably not a very good idea. I don’t really think I got off on the right foot with him.”

“I think he understands you a little better now,” Mako says, insistent. “And… I hope you understand a little of where he is coming from, too?”

She gives him a hopeful, encouraging smile and he sighs, running his hand through his hair.

“For the record, you're better at this than any authority figure I ever had growing up, and I now totally understand why Becket has that habit of looking at you like you’re the sun and the stars,” he says, and Hermann is almost sure Mako blushes a little at that. “All right, but don’t pressure him or anything. if he doesn’t feel like talking about his brother with the loud little Kaiju groupie, then that’s, you know, his prerogative.”

Mako nods. “Of course. Do you want to come with me right now and see if he has a moment?”

Newton turns to look back at Hermann’s side again. His gaze sweeps over the bare walls, to the cold ceiling overhead and back down, abruptly stopping right around where Hermann is standing.

Correction: exactly where Hermann is standing. For the first time since his death, Newton is actually looking straight at him - not completely in the wrong direction as he has every time before now, or vaguely in the right one like he might if he’d taken a lucky guess, but actually _at_ him. Newton's eyes, wide and full of pain, flick down to Hermann’s feet and back up, which prompts Hermann to realize, with a jolt, that he _has_ feet now. He even has his cane - or an ethereal reproduction of it, at any rate, and he only barely resists the urge to lift a hand up to his own face to feel if that's there, too. He assumes it must be, because Newton is looking him in the eye.

“Newt?” Mako touches Newton’s shoulder again. Hermann realizes she must not be able to see him.

Newton jolts, tears his eyes from Hermann’s to look at Mako. “Yeah,” he croaks. “Yeah, let’s go. I could use some time away from this place.”

And he stumbles out into the corridor, Mako following him with concern written all over her features. Hermann is too astonished to go after them.


	5. Chapter 5

Despite Mako’s reassurance, it still comes as a bit of a surprise to Newt when Becket proves substantially more reasonable a conversational partner this time around, and Newt isn’t sure if that’s Mako’s good influence or just that Newt is being much more reasonable, himself. Hell, maybe the adjustment in his own attitude is something he got in the Drift - from Hermann, he hopes, not from the Kaiju.

His chat with Becket is brief and he doesn’t breathe a word about any supernatural experiences, he’s not that reckless, but when Newt leaves he already feels much better. He doesn’t return to the lab, though, but heads straight to his quarters instead. The sample he neglected to put away in his hurry to get out of the lab is about as useful to his research as a big slab of jello. It’s welcome to deteriorate as far as it will out there on the table for all Newt cares.

When he reaches the heavy metal door of his humble abode, he purposefully keeps his gaze trained on his feet as he pushes it open and steps inside. Only after closing the door and drawing and releasing a deep breath does he look up, and is not at all surprised to find himself face to face with the same shimmering apparition that drove him from the lab earlier. That’s about what he expected, really. He takes a few steps forward.

“So, I see ignoring you isn’t going to make you go away,” he says, going for a casual tone. He can’t tell if he’s successful.

Hermann shifts his weight and cocks his head to the side. There’s a hint of apology in the faint smile he offers. “When has it ever?”

Great, so he talks now, too. Fantastic.

“Neither did getting rid of your phone, apparently,” Newt continues, and tries not to think about how hilariously unlikely it is that he is actually talking to his dead coworker-slash-Drift partner.

At that, the smile vanishes. Hermann tenses visibly, opens his mouth.

“And before you even say anything,“ Newt hurries to add before Hermann has the chance to complain, “I had to. Someone was bound to wonder where it was anyway, and we already established that continuing to use it would’ve been a _really_ bad idea, so I turned it in myself. Told them I’d found it with some of my stuff.”

Hermann’s shoulders relax a little and he looks away, awkward. “I - no, you’re right. Of course.”

“Deleted the texts too, just in case.”

“That was… probably wise.”

Hermann being this non-confrontational is not unprecedented, but it has, historically, been pretty damn rare. Newt isn’t sure how to respond to it in this context, so he settles for just looking at Hermann, taking in all the familiar things about him that Newt thought he’d never see again. And yeah, that’s definitely the same stupid haircut the guy had the last time Newt saw him, the same sharp face, and the same old-fashioned - no, hang on.

“That’s not what you were wearing.”

Hermann’s brows furrow. “What?”

“The day you, uh, you know, died? You had a different vest on.”

Hermann looks down at himself, then sniffs and holds himself a little straighter as he meets Newt’s eyes again. “I wasn’t aware there was a _dress code_ for hau- for this sort of thing. This happens to be my favourite vest.”

“Yeah. Mine, too,” Newt says, because it’s true. It fit Hermann a little better than the rest of his wardrobe - not that that’s saying much - and Hermann always seemed to be just that little bit less grumpy, more relaxed, when he wore it.

And that’s exactly why Newt has a problem with it now: this apparition before him seems almost designed to fit the way Newt prefers to remember his late lab partner, and therefore it seems all the more likely that it’s all in his head. After all, it was clear that Mako couldn’t see Hermann back in the lab, so which is more likely? That ghosts, a phenomenon that science has never been able to prove real, actually exist and that Hermann is genuinely here, haunting him - or that Newt is simply having a breakdown of some kind?

“I’m having a breakdown,” Newt says.

Hermann rolls his eyes. “You’re not having a breakdown, Newton.”

“How would you know?” Newt counters, his voice rising an octave like it always does when he’s agitated. “If you’re real and not a figment of my imagination, how would you know what’s going on in my head?”

“All right, fine,” Hermann snaps. “ _If_ you’re having a breakdown - and I don’t think you are - I am not a product of it.”

“No one else can see you, though!”

“No one else knew me all that well.”

“That doesn’t prove anything!” Newt says, sitting down onto his bunk with a huff. “How do I know you’re not some kinda neural afterimage from the Drift?”

“Because, first of all, the Drift doesn’t work that way-”

“ _I don’t know that_! Maybe - maybe you do, but I have no way of knowing if you’re really you - or, or, him, so nothing you say has any real weight, you know? All I know is, I still have bits of your memories floating around in my head, so why couldn’t there be some kind of an imprint of your personality there, too?”

Hermann gives an irritated sigh. “All right, yes, I grant you that I wouldn’t be too quick to believe anything you said, were our roles reversed, but your alternative explanation doesn’t hold up, either.”

“Oh yeah?” Newt says, feeling a little more at home now that it seems they’re headed for an argument. It’s almost nice to be able to do this again. “Why not?”

“Even if we accept, for argument’s sake, that the Drift can have that kind of an effect, you drifted with Kaiju _twice_. So if anything -”

“Well, I wasn’t _in love_ with the Kaiju, was I?” Newt snaps, and regrets it the moment it’s out of his mouth. It’s way, way too late for confessions, but aside from that, he’s just left himself open to a snide retort along the lines of ‘you certainly could have fooled me’. _Wide_ open. And how is Hermann meant to resist such an opportunity for combining insult and evasion of the real point? Groaning, Newt squeezes his eyes shut and lowers his head into his hands, bracing himself for the inevitable dig at his character.

No such dig follows, however. After a moment of absolute silence, Newt risks a glance up to discover that Hermann’s done that thing Newt’s seen him do sometimes, where he tucks his chin in and keeps his mouth a tight, careful line - and somehow manages to resemble nothing so much as a scolded puppy. It’s not a common expression on him by any means, and It’s never been directed at Newt. Newt straightens up a little, his mouth hanging open for a second or two before he remembers to close it.

“I -” Hermann says, then pauses to swallow in that laborious way he has, “I never realized.” His eyes are wide and his brow knit, and all right, perhaps it was uncharitable of Newt to expect snark in this situation. As sharp as Hermann’s tongue always was, that level of cruelty would be atypical of him. But this seems at least as out of character, if not more so.

It’s also unwelcome. Newt doesn’t want pity, not for this, and he sure as hell doesn’t want it from _Hermann_ , of all people. He’s about to say as much, but the Hermann speaks up again.

“We really made a mess of things, didn’t we?”

Okay, no. That’s not allowed either. “Uh, I don’t know which apocalypse you were watching, but I’m pretty sure we _saved the world_. Helped save it. Whatever. That’s kind of the opposite of a mess.”

Hermann doesn’t say anything, and Newt looks away, frustrated and embarrassed. He’d have preferred the evasive insult. In fact, he could go for a good argument right about now. A real, honest fight, like old times - anything, really, to avoid having to talk about _feelings_ , because there’s no point in it now. There’s never been less point.

He feels the mattress dip, and he can _tell_ it doesn’t give quite as much as it should, were it an actual flesh and blood person sitting down next to him. Everything is a pale shadow of what it should be, and Newt has to blink hard a few times to keep from bursting into tears. Again.

Then there are fingers carding through his hair, gentle as a whisper. About as solid, too, but there’s no question that they are there. Newt closes his eyes, turns his head, and he can almost pretend the shoulder he rests his head on isn’t see-through.

“You didn’t let me finish,” Hermann murmurs. “There’s another flaw in your theory.”

Seriously? He’s going to keep going with _that_? Newt makes a noise that he intends as an expression of disapproval, but which Hermann clearly takes as encouragement to go on.

“The text messages I sent you.”

“I could’ve imagined those, too.” Newt says, pressing his face into the tweed that’s a little too easy to breathe through. It’s not much of a comfort, but he’ll take what he can get. So sue him. “I was so tired last night. Could’ve all been a dream.” It’s a half-hearted argument, but he doesn’t have the energy for anything more. He leans into Hermann a little harder -

And falls face first onto the mattress of his bunk.

He opens his eyes, dazed, and half expects to find that he’s successfully talked himself out of believing there was ever anyone in the room with him. But Hermann is still there, thank _God_ , scooting down the bed so that his lower half is no longer intersecting with Newt’s.

“I can’t support your full weight,” he says, his expression apologetic.

“Dude, that was so not even close to my full weight.”

“And I couldn’t support it. Ergo.” Hermann gestures vaguely at Newt and his newly horizontal state.

“Don’t ‘ergo’ me, you wordy jerk who, by the way, is probably not even real -”

“Again, Newton, I would like to hear your explanation for the messages.”

“Again, _Hermann_ , I could’ve imagined them. No evidence left either way, cause if they were real I deleted ‘em.”

“And the one that got you to come to the lab when my equipment was being taken away?” Hermann prods softly. “If this has all been in your head, how did you know to come in at that time?”

Newt draws in a breath through his open mouth and stops short, exhaling in defeat.

“Yeah, okay, I don’t have an answer to that. I just...” he makes a vague gesture with both hands before letting them fall down by his sides. “Whatever’s going on, I like it better than not having you around at all. I want it to be real, cause if it’s not, you could just - poof - vanish without warning and then I’d be alone again.”

“You’re hardly alone without me,” Hermann insists, though his tone is quiet, gentle. “But I’m not going anywhere.”

“No, but I am,” Newt says, the realization hitting him like a bucket of cold water, and he sits bolt upright. “Hermann, I’m not gonna be able to stay! They’re closing the place and kicking everyone out!”

Panic begins to creep up his spine as it dawns on him that there really is no way for him to fight the impending eviction. What’s the best case scenario, that he’ll find a way to hide himself away in the multitude of nooks and crannies and unused spaces within the Shatterdome? Even if he manages to pull that off, what will he do about food in a defunct military facility? The only way in or out even now is on a helicopter, not exactly easy to come by, or inconspicuous to use if he were to somehow acquire one. Staying just isn’t a viable plan, but he can’t go, either, if it means leaving Hermann behind.

“It’s _fine_ , Newton,” Hermann says, placing a hand over his. “I’ll go with you.”

Newt can’t quite suppress a wince, no matter how relieved he wants to be by Hermann’s reassurances. “You realize that the last time you said that, you ended up dead.”

“The last time I said that I was convinced that no consequence could possibly be worse than not doing it,” Hermann counters, his eyes serious. “I still stand by that, and I feel the same about this.”

“Aw, gee,” Newt says, because he really doesn’t have a response ready for something like that. “Are you sure you can leave, though?”

“I don’t see why not. I seem to be able to follow you just fine so far.”

It’s hard to tell with him partially transparent and all, but Newt thinks he can just make out a suggestion of a blush along Hermann’s cheeks. He can’t help but smile.

“Maybe I should start looking for a place to move to, then.”

Herman’s brow furrows. “Do you mean to tell me you haven’t started looking yet?”

“Cut me some slack, man, I only found out this morning. You were there!”

“Did you really expect a different outcome? With how short-sighted the powers that be have been about the program in the past?”

“All right, I’ll start looking! Look, I’m taking out the tablet, will you please chill out?”

Hermann doesn’t. Instead, he proceeds to hover - not literally, thank Christ - over Newt’s shoulder for the next two hours as Newt goes through listings, disapproving of most options over what seem, to Newt, be trivial flaws.

It’s actually not all that different from how Newt would have pictured trying to pick out a shared place going - if he had ever allowed himself to imagine that kind of a thing.

 

-

 

Saturday arrives faster than anticipated, and before Newt knows it, it’s time for the unveiling of the memorial. Technically he’s not required to attend, as some concerned people have pointed out, but wild horses couldn’t keep him away. Couldn’t have even before he discovered that he wasn’t quite as alone as he initially thought.

When he arrives on the Shatterdome’s deck, the first thing he sees is the gaggle of reporters and paparazzi gathered at the sidelines, and the sight of them feels kind of surreal. He can’t remember the last time they even let non-personnel in. The second thing is the looming shape of the memorial, covered with a large cloth. Newt doesn’t see the point of the cloth, it’s obvious from the outline that it’s just a big cuboid slab of stone, probably with names and possibly dates carved into it. It’s not going to be a _surprise_ to anyone.

He counts fourteen rows of seats for the attending Shatterdome personnell, which is far fewer than he expected. The place seemed full to bursting the day they closed the Breach, have so many people really left already? There’s a handful more seats on either side of the podium at the foot of the covered memorial, facing the audience. Of those, the five on the right are meant for the new Marshal, the surviving rangers, the Chief of J-Tech and what’s left of the research department - in other words, Herc Hansen, Mako, Becket, Tendo and Newt. The eight on the left are roped off, reserved for those who fell during the final push. Newt knows he’s the only one who can see Hermann perched on the edge of one seat, careful not to disturb the framed photograph of himself propped up against the backrest.

Newt wonders if the other seats might not be similarly occupied. Maybe Pentecost himself is, unbeknownst to anyone, watching over the proceedings from the chair that stands apart from the others, bearing a picture in a frame that’s just that little bit fancier than the rest. Are the Kaidonovskys in attendance, their backs straight and heads held high, regardless of whether or not anyone knows they’re there? Is there anyone in the audience who might see the Wei Tang brothers, perhaps good-naturedly poking each other in the sides as they often did? Marshal Hansen’s gaze never strays towards the restricted seats, but that doesn’t necessarily mean his son isn’t there.

Newt walks past the audience seats and takes his place next to Tendo. A few minutes later, Marshal Hercules Hansen steps up to the podium to address the crowd.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very sorry about the months of delay, but at last it is done!


End file.
